


Picture Perfect in a Broken Frame

by great_gospel



Category: Bleach
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Angst with a Happy Ending, Early Series, F/M, Gen, Kinda, Kuchiki Siblings, Post-Soul Society Arc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-08-12 13:22:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7936342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/great_gospel/pseuds/great_gospel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Rukia sees the photo is <i>after</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Picture Perfect in a Broken Frame

**Author's Note:**

> Word Count: 886  
> Timeline/Spoilers: post-Soul Society arc; spoilers for the end of that arc  
> Notes: Title comes from the song Picture Perfect by Alex and Sierra.  
> All my fics are from FFN ok

The first time Rukia sees the photo is _after_.

Her brother lies in a sickbed in the fourth division, and she wanders the estate alone, truly taking everything in for the first time since her initial arrival decades ago. She's largely avoided the immense mansion, too cold and empty to really be called home, in favour of the thirteenth’s barracks. Her brief calls to the Kuchiki household, mainly for propriety’s sake, were spent with eyes downturned, not meeting her adoptive brother's stare. Had she deigned to lift her head even once in the past forty nine years, she would have seen that his gaze had been equally avoidant, looking over her, looking through her.

For the first time in near half a century, she feels the wisps of warmth in this household. She had called him brother and, for the first time, meant it. The small shinigami walks the wings with fingertips gracing the walls.

It is then that she happens upon it, neatly tucked away in the confines of her brother's looming halls. Of course, she'd had to go through more than a few sealed doors, but curiosity got the better of her.

Sliding open the wooden panels, they meet at last. There are no dust trails around the shrine, and the doors do not creak from lack of use, Rukia notes.

Glancing at the photo, Rukia does not see her own face staring back at her. The woman in the picture, she was a classic sort of beauty, the kind that you might find while flipping through the pages of old magazines, sepia-toned. She held the air of nobility, not in the snooty, upturned nose sense, but in the poised, ladylike sense, like she'd been crafted for this role. Though this woman too, hailed from the depths of Hanging Dog, she was far too petite and graceful in appearance for life in the slums. To Rukia, it seems only fitting that she made her way into a noble household, as if it were almost meant to be. Certain nobles would beg to differ. But, where they detected weakness and tattered shreds, Rukia sensed a tranquil strength, even from this worn photograph.

Though the shinigami boasted no great height herself, actually slightly more diminutive than the woman in the portrait, she was rough and tumble, and damn clever, truly a product of her upbringing. Or lack thereof.

But for the first time, the word 'brother' means something to her. For the first time, so does 'sister'.

And it is enough.

.

Byakuya doesn't sleep in his hospital bed. He hasn't slept much in the past nearly fifty years, though one could never tell from the look of him. Prim and proper to a fault, his inner depth is held behind a cool facade. It was not always this way. He had been quite the brash, hotheaded youth, Soul Society's older generation would assure you. But most of that age is gone, whether hollowfied, exiled, deserters, or simply swept away with the winds of time. Just as she was.

To her, he was an open book. The face that appeared blank to others, if not slightly contemptuous, held verses upon verses for her. The slightest lift of a brow or twitch of a lip, and she could read him easily. She was the only one who ever thought to look past his gruff exterior and flip through his pages.

She was everything. And now she was nothing.

Her remnants are the empty space on the futon beside him and silence in the dark that keeps him up at night. No traces of her light (sometimes too light) breathing. None of her serene countenance emanating. The sweet scent of her hair, the feather light touch of her hand, her tinkling laughter. All vanished. He'd give anything to even hear the hacking cough of hers, the one that eventually stole her breath away, and left in its place this chilling ache in his stone cold heart.

It's stupid, it's selfish. But, ah, it was (is) love. He remembers the night he first whispered those words to her, nervous and uncertain, but ever sincere.

He wonders if she'd be disappointed in him now. He certainly is in himself, pledging conflicting vows and mucking it all up. He kept his promise to his beloved in the most twisted sense. Rukia was in his care, but he'd been ready to escort her to her own execution. And she went abidingly, head held high. To him, she had never looked more like a Kuchiki.

Rescuing her from Ichimaru's blade today could hardly make up for half a century's worth of neglect, but he would like to think that it's a start – a chance to become the man his wife always knew he was.

.

In the morning, he'll rise from his bed, and she'll come pay a visit. But for tonight, they'll remain solitary and secluded, mourning the same loss. She'll feel foolish, making tentative attempts at conversation with a photograph that could never give her the answers she needs to hear. He'll grasp at fleeting memories, attributing the phantom tingles on his arm to injury and sleep deprivation, not daring to hope for anything more.

At daybreak, maybe fifty years of winter can finally give way to the seeds of spring.


End file.
